


Work of Art

by threeplusfire



Series: Bad Things Come In Threes [11]
Category: Hat Films - Fandom, The Yogscast
Genre: M/M, Multi, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Urban Magic Yogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 21:12:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3303605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threeplusfire/pseuds/threeplusfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in the early days of the Garbage Court. Ross is the canvas for Smith and Trott.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Work of Art

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Summer's comment about body paint and the UMA blog post [here](http://urbanmagicaesthetic.tumblr.com/post/109877044725).
> 
> Writing is a lonely habit, but made so much more bearable by the creative, wonderful friends - Summer, Leon, Dex, Hannah, Lucy, Meaghan, and Boa. Thanks for the commentary and commas.

Early evening filled the kitchen with shadows. Smith hunted around for the beer he was sure he brought home the night before. Instead, he found Trott’s bag, overfull and practically spilling all over the counter. Smith nudged the clasp open and hooked his fingers into the bag, pulling it closer. No telling what Trott brought home for him this time. 

He probably left the bag here on purpose to find out what Smith would choose. Doing a bit of market research. No doubt his favorites would be at the top of the order list for new inventory. Smith grinned and dug around some more, emptying everything onto the counter. 

He picked up a box, intrigued by the weight and the faint sweet smell of sugar. Definitely too heavy to be a box of edible underpants. Did they carry some kind of ridiculous sex candy at the shop, he wondered. Trott didn’t often bring home food. Smith opened it and rifled through the half-dozen small jars. There were a couple of brushes, cheap plastic ones, rattling around inside. Smith read the labels with increasing delight.

“Ross,” Smith called out.

“What?”

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” Ross said from his place in front of the sofa. He was idly putting together a jigsaw puzzle he found the other day on the curb. They were currently crashing in a model apartment of a new building, where the construction stalled out half-finished. Something to do with the developer and bribes, some scandal that hadn’t played out entirely yet. He kind of hoped they could stay long enough for him to finish the puzzle, though Ross suspected the box was missing some pieces. It was nice having this weird new, bland furniture. Not that it was going to stay new long, the way Smith constantly put his feet up on things. There were scuff marks on the fake leather sofa, dirty boot prints on the carpet, scorch marks in the kitchen from an entirely accidental fire. The water was still running through some oversight, but no electricity. Ross was completely content to fill the place with candles however, and melted wax encrusted every window sill and flat surface. Mounds of candles - from little tea lights, to thick pillars, to saints candles in their glass - were everywhere. He liked the light, the way it flickered, the softness of it. 

“I have a game we can play,” Smith said, sliding down next to him on the scratchy, cheap carpet. 

“What kind of game?” Ross didn’t look up from the puzzle. 

“We’re going to make you into even more of a work of art.” Smith thrust a small container into his hand. Ross squinted at it.

“Vanilla buttercream… edible body paint?”

“Yes,” chuckled Smith. “Come on, let me paint on you.”

“What?” Ross looked at him with an incredulous expression. He shoved the container back at Smith. “No.”

“Ross,” Smith whined. “You are absolutely perfect for this in a way no human being could ever be.”

“Can you even draw?” Ross asked skeptically. He fit a puzzle piece into a corner with satisfaction.

“Of course I can!”

“You’re just going to draw dicks.” Ross finally said in a weary tone.

“No!” Smith shook his head vehemently. 

“I know you are.”

“I won’t, I swear.” Smith leaned against Ross, warm and smelling faintly of smoke and the river. He smiled his most winning, sincere smile up at Ross. 

“What’s in it for me?” he asked, his profile lit by the candles crowding the edges of the puzzle. 

“I know you’d rather be naked…”

Ross laughed and kissed Smith on the forehead. Smith sat up, eagerly dumping his hoard of jars onto the floor beside the sofa. 

“You’d better not draw any dicks on me,” he warned as he pulled his shirt over his head. Ross tugged off his jeans, the brand new ones Trott took him to get from a peculiar tailoring shop downtown. They were more comfortable than cutting holes in Smith’s jeans, but Ross really could happily do without the clothes. He rolled over onto his stomach and dropped his head onto his folded arms. Smith moved some of the candles closer to the edge of the table. 

He ran an appreciative hand down the smooth lines of Ross’ back and leaned forward to kiss him on the back of the neck. Ross hummed quietly. It was usually pleasant to have Smith’s undivided attention. He looked at Ross with awe sometimes, when he didn’t think anyone else was watching. 

“Do you want chocolate, or vanilla, or strawberry? Or maple, there’s maple too.” Smith opened that one up, sniffing. 

“I don’t think it matters to me.” Ross picked at the wax encrusted into the carpet.  

“Right, well.” Smith opened the rest of the jars, dipping his fingers in to taste each one. 

“Why are they flavors?” Ross asked curiously.

“Because it’s edible, mate.”

“That’s bizarre.”

“Lots of things are.” Smith shrugged as he dipped a brush in the nearest jar. “Fun though.”

Cheerfully, Smith dragged the cheap brush over Ross’ back. He quickly figured out how much of the sticky paint he needed for a nice, solid line and set to painting various chocolate designs on Ross’ pristine surface. It was easy, and more fun than he anticipated. 

“Smith.” Ross slitted open his eyes and lifted his head.

“Hmm?” 

“You’re drawing a dick.”

“Am not.”

“I can feel it.”

“Just making some decorative swirls, mate.”

“Smith, it’s a dick.”

“Nope.”

“If I get up and look in the mirror, am I going to see a dick?”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, Ross.” Smith waved the tiny brush at him, almost smearing chocolate paint on Ross’ nose.

“You ass,” Ross grumbled. “I’m going to take a shower.”

“No, no, wait!” Smith pleaded. “I’ll take it off.”

Ross sighed and dropped his head back down.

“You’re an ass,” Ross repeated.

“You adore me though,” Smith laughed. His breath was hot on Ross’ shoulder. He licked across the crude collection of dicks he had already doodled on Ross’ back. It didn’t taste bad, he decided. Sweet, very artificial, but not horrible. It was more like frosting than paint. Cheap bakery frosting, sugar and water and the scorching tang of artificial flavors. Smith let one hand rest on the back of Ross’ neck, fingers straying up into his hair as he licked away the drawings. Beneath him, Ross made a quiet sound of pleasure. His shoulders flexed, and he curled his tail around to latch onto Smith’s leg. 

Probably should have gotten some napkins, Smith thought. He looked at the streaky smears on Ross’ back. Needed to start over entirely on a clean slate. Clean marble, he reminded himself. He grabbed Ross’ shirt from the floor and wiped him off. 

“Done drawing dicks?” Ross’ voice was muffled.

“I’ll do something better this time,” Smith promised. He batted Ross’ tail off so he could shuffle around and swing a leg over him. Sitting astride Ross’ hips, he admired the shape of his back in the candlelight. 

“Have you ever looked at yourself in the mirror?” he asked in a low voice. His fingers moved lightly, brushing over Ross’ shoulders.

“I have seen myself.” Ross turned his head to one side, trying to catch sight of Smith behind him. “Why?”

“Just, you’re beautiful, you know.” Smith stroked a hand down the curve of Ross’ spine. He was cool to touch, still more stone than flesh. Smith would swear he was different though, in the year since he came to stay. Still beautiful, more beautiful than any statue Smith had ever seen. Slightly less inhuman, a little more give to his skin but still rock solid. 

Looking down at the floor, Ross smiled and lifted his tail to wrap around Smith’s waist carefully. Ross found it gratifying, the naked appreciation of his physical self. He was not above a little personal vanity in this new life. Even after a year, he was still not quite used to being seen so easily. 

“Keep talking, then.”

“Whoever made you did a bang up job,” Smith said as he drew a line down the center of Ross’ back in paint. He made another following the curve of his shoulder blade and down to his ribs. He gave up on actually drawing anything, just painted long lines that highlighted Ross’ sculpted muscles. He was stunning, beautifully proportioned and shaped. Smith wondered who would have put this kind of effort into something, just to leave it behind. The other statues on the roof were elaborate, fanciful things, but nothing like Ross. 

“How they could put you on the roof, and not in the church, I don’t know.”

Ross shifted beneath him.

“Sentinels don’t go inside.”

“Criminal, leaving you out in the rain.”

“I hate the rain,” Ross agreed. He did. One of the things he most loved about this new life was being able to stay inside when it poured, not forced to stand unblinking. 

“I would never leave you in the rain.” Smith leaned forward and pressed his lips to Ross’ back, tasting the over-sweet body paint. The chocolate was not really very good, but the vanilla one wasn’t so terrible. It reminded him of cheap donuts, warm in the racks at truck stops on the long road down to the city.

He scrawled his name across Ross’ back in the strawberry paint, vivid pink against the pale marble. In the center of Ross’ back, he sketched a little heart. 

“That better not be another dick.”

Smith laughed and leaned forward to lick away the evidence. 

“Course not.” He painted a tiny S, and then a tiny R, and finally a tiny T as well in place of the smudged remains of the heart. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Nothing,” Smith soothed. “Just drawing.” 

Ross sighed as Smith kissed between his shoulders, tongue tracing the letters away. He shifted, making himself even more comfortable and arching into Smith’s touch. 

The door scraped open and Trott shoved his way inside. The door was slightly warped, water damage that made it hard to open and shut. Trott slammed it closed and leaned against it for a minute, before picking his way carefully into the living room.

“What are you… Smith, you son of a bitch, were you in my bag again?”

“I thought you left it there for me.” Smith grinned up at Trott.

“Hi, Trott,” Ross mumbled from the floor.

“Hi, Ross.” Trott crossed his arms and stood over them. Smith wondered for a moment why he was barefoot and his hair was wet, but decided not to ask. Some questions were more trouble than they were worth. Maybe later, when they were curled up in the dark, they could talk about whatever was going on there. Some things were easier out of the light.

“You have to agree, he’s perfect for it.” Smith gestured. “Doesn’t even fidget.”

“Did you write your name there?” Trott leaned forward, eyes narrowed in the candlelight.

“No,” Smith denied quickly. He reached for the shirt on the carpet but Trott stopped him with a laugh. 

“Oh no,” he chided. Amusement deepened his voice. “You have to lick it off. How else am I going to know if it is worth ordering more of?”

Smith rolled his eyes. But he tipped his head into Trott’s hand, nuzzling him before he moved back down to lick the thick smears of paint off Ross’ back. He felt more than saw Trott settle down beside them on the floor. Ross made soft, satisfied sounds as Smith dragged his mouth over his back and Trott scratched at his scalp. He unfolded one arm to reach out and touch Trott’s knee.

“How are you, sunshine?” asked Trott. 

“Did Smith draw more dicks on my back?” Ross turned his head to look up at Trott. His eyes were bright in the dimness, his face soft with contentment. 

Trott chuckled and glanced at Smith. He was busy licking his way up Ross’ spine, making him shiver a little.

“I don’t see any dicks.” He ran a finger over Ross’ shoulder, through the various bits of paint, and brought it to his mouth. His expectations were pretty low for any edible sex toy, but it wasn’t entirely terrible. Definitely better than that cheap hot chocolate mix Ross brought home last week, the one that didn’t actually contain any chocolate. Trott kept his eyes on Smith, so assiduously cleaning Ross’ back with his tongue. His hands rested on Ross’ ribs, and his hair fell over his forehead. Ross’ tail reflected the light, dark blue glimmers around Smith’s waist. Trott couldn’t find it in himself to be annoyed at Smith’s pilfering, given the sight in front of him. 

Smith wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His face was just a bit flushed, and it made Trott smile to watch him. 

“How’s it taste?”

“Super sweet,” Smith shrugged.

Trott rolled his eyes. Smith was the least eloquent person he’d ever met. Why he thought his opinion was so valuable, Trott had no idea. But he was resigned to losing at least a few things each month to Smith’s sticky fingers. Generally, the experience was worthwhile and Trott was happy enough to let Smith think he was getting away with something.  

“Shove over,” murmured Trott. “My turn.” Untangling himself, Smith slid off to the other side. Ross raised himself up on his elbows, and glanced skeptically over his shoulder. Smith leaned over to kiss him. Ross licked his lips and laughed.

“That tastes awful!’

“S’not so bad.” Smith licked Ross’ cheek where he’d smudged a bit of paint somehow, and Ross laughed once more. The second kiss was gentle, Smith’s hand cupping his cheek and sliding into his hair.

Trott took his place across Ross’ hips, tucking his tail carefully around his waist. He wiped off the last few smudges Smith left behind, and chewed on the paint brush thoughtfully. Meanwhile, Ross settled his head on Smith’s leg, fingers playing with a rip in his jeans. It was unusually quiet for a moment, all of them silent at the same time. 

The first stroke was hesitant, curving up and around like a wave. Trott dipped the brush back into the little jar, twirling it through the strawberry paint. Then he was sketching out a line of calligraphy, swirls and circles and waving lines. Smith watched in fascination, his fingers ruffling Ross’ short hair. 

“What’s that?” he asked, lifting one of the candles from the table to hold it closer. Ross twisted his head to the side, trying in vain to see what the feathery brush strokes left on his back. 

“A song,” Trott said absently. He switched to the vanilla paint, adding little highlights to the curling lines. 

“What song?”

“I want to hear the song,” said Ross, his voice eager.

“Hold your horses,” Trott said, and tried not to smile. He painted another line, and ignored the way Smith squinted at him. He felt the suppressed laughter from Ross beneath him, and squeezed his knees into Ross’ sides. Pausing to admire his handwriting, or perhaps notice how rusty it was from years of disuse, Trott set the mostly empty jar on the table. Ross’ back was covered in the dense, fluid lines. Trott stared at it, trying to conjure up a feeling of homesickness that wouldn’t come. 

“What’s it about?” Smith set the candle back on the table, careful not to disturb the puzzle pieces or drip too much wax on them. 

“About a long day, and coming home.” Trott hummed a little under his breath, searching for the beginning notes. He felt Ross’ tail tighten around him, a reassuring embrace. Trott sang quietly then, the words strange and silvery in the dry air. Something in Smith’s expression sharpened, some keen interest and a half-understanding of words not too dissimilar from ones he knew. He hummed along under Trott’s voice, and Ross tapped his fingers in the carpet in time with them. 

When Trott finished the song, he bent forward to press his lips to the nape of Ross’ neck. With his left hand, he reached out to Smith and tangled their fingers together. He was home, here and now. 

**  
**  



End file.
